Such being the case, we cannot blame the White Man for entertaining a wholesome contempt and loathing for the Black Man; and the truly hearty manner in which many of our more pallid fellow-countrymen breathe ingenious execrations whenever the latter is mentioned, may be accepted as a beautiful and touching proof that they appreciate God's benignity in giving them a superiority of skin; even though He may have seen best, in His infinite wisdom, to leave them occasionally without brains. Having been informed that the ancient and spectacled Mackerel Brigade had returned from its monthly walk toward the well-known and starving Southern Confederacy, I ascended to the roof of my architectural steed, the Gothic Pegasus, on Thursday morn, my boy, and galloped slowly to the stamping ground of the unconquerable veterans. Let me pass over the events of the day in camp, when the sedentary warriors, whom it is my glory to celebrate, were reviewed after the manner of Napoleon's Old Guard. Let me pass over this, and come directly to Christmas Eve, and the literary entertainment in the Mackerel Chaplain's tent. Captains Villiam Brown, Bob Shorty, Samyule Sa-mith, a young reporter from Olympus, the Chaplain, and myself, were the members of the party, and we sat round a camp-table with two lanterns swinging right over the bottles. Rear Admiral Head shortly came in; and when the Olympian reporter was requested to open the intellectual festival with a song, he complimented the iron-plated branch of the service with "THE BOATSWAIN'S CALL. I. "The lights upon the river's brink In constellation bright, Are winking down upon the tide That twinkles through the night; When in a gayly dancing skiff The boatswain leaves his ship, And as his oars a moment cease Within the flood to dip, He winds his call, The boatswain's cheery call. II. "A maiden stands upon the shore, Where land and ocean meet, And breakers cast their pearly gifts In homage at her feet; While through the causeway of the night She gazes o'er the sea, To where a stately frigate rides In lonely majesty, And waits the call, The gallant boatswain's call. III. "'Oh! tarry not, my boatswain bold,' Her parted lips would say; But when the heart is vexed with doubt, The soul can only pray; And sorely doubtful is the maid, Till on her ear there falls The music of the merriest, The clearest, best of calls-- A winding call, Her faithful boatswain's call. IV.